


Just the Job

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Affection, Burglary, Caring, Food, Kissing, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 14:22:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4141068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Moriarty supplied him liberally with money, and used him only in one or two very high-class jobs" – The Adventure of the Empty House</p>
<p>Moriarty awaits Moran’s return from a job</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just the Job

    It is quiet outside – not silent (London is never silent; this great city never fully sleeps) but lacking the bustle of the day.  The house too is serene. The servants are presumably asleep in bed; the fires are out; only the gentle ticking of the clocks permeates the stillness.

     Horse drawn traffic passes only occasionally so when Moriarty, lying on his back in the darkness, hears hoof-beats stop outside the house this catches his attention fully. He snaps himself out of his half-doze at once. Mindful of the empty space in the bed beside him, he sits up. The room is not quite fully dark – a sliver of moonlight softly illuminates the room, enough light for him to be able to snag his gold pocketwatch from the bedside table and, opening the case, just make out the time. A little after one O’clock. Somewhat of an ungodly hour to be contemplating getting up.

     More sounds from outside – a double set of footfalls approaching the house; murmuring voices; the clumsy scratch of a key against the lock, followed by laughter as apparently the holder of the key fails to insert it on the first and then second attempts, though he succeeds on the third. More talking – male voices, then more laughter, then one set of footfalls now retreating. The front door closes. The horse clip-clops slowly away.

      Moriarty does not rise yet, waiting to see what happens next. This turns out to be nothing in particular, only the sound of heavily muted footsteps downstairs, growing even quieter. Moriarty strains to hear more but it is another minute or two before he hears another faint sound, the scrape of a chair leg on a hard floor perhaps, and he makes his decision. He lights the candle in its holder on the bedside table. Climbing out of bed, he pushes his feet into his slippers and retrieves his robe from the hook on the back of the door. He slips this on over his nightshirt before taking up the candle and padding quietly from the bedroom.

      Downstairs the door into the kitchen is closed but a faint yellow line under the door indicates a lamp has been lit within. After having heard what had occurred outside and upon the doorstep one might be justified in thinking that within the kitchen is an inebriated Colonel Moran, having finally slunk home after his money ran out. But the professor knows better than this and it is  no surprise therefore to him when, upon opening the door, he finds Colonel Moran seated at the kitchen table, looking serene and perfectly sober.

     “Professor.” Moran stands up swiftly, his chair scraping on the floor once more. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.” Although steady on his feet and not reeking of alcohol, still he appears somewhat dishevelled and dusty and Moriarty notes that there are scrapes on his hands and a bloodied cut upon his cheek. His trouser legs are also torn here and there.

     “I couldn’t sleep anyway.” Moriarty closes the kitchen door softly behind him. He regards the items on the table before his right hand man – a plate bearing a hunk of bread and a chunk of cheese, the butter dish and a butter knife, with a glass of water beside them.

     “I was ravenous, sir; I ain’t eaten since breakfast,” Moran says, seeing the professor’s gaze falling on his rather basic repast. “Things went on longer than anticipated.”

     “So I had assumed when you did not return for dinner.” Moriarty moves a little closer towards his companion. He blows out his candle before setting it down on the table. “You’re bleeding.”

     Moran’s hand moves to his cheek at once, fingering the cut. “Just a scratch, from the brambles.”

     “We should bathe it properly nonetheless.” Moriarty reaches and takes one of Moran’s large, strong hands in his, examining the knuckles. “And your hands.”

     “I’ll sort it in a bit.”

     Moriarty relinquishes his grasp on Moran’s hand, allowing him to resume tearing a piece off the bread and spreading butter on it.

     “You know…” Moriarty watches Moran’s mouth as he bites off half of the piece of bread; he watches him chew it hurriedly and notices how Moran’s throat moves as he swallows. The colonel pauses then before taking a second bite, seeing the professor’s focus and watching Moriarty intently in turn. “There should still be some cold meat and potatoes left from supper,” Moriarty adds at last. “I requested that some be saved for you.”

     “This’ll do me fine, sir.” Moran pops the second bite of bread into his mouth.

     “Nonsense, you’re a grown man; you need more substantial food.” Moriarty goes to search for himself, finding the thick slice of beef and the potatoes on a plate covered by a dish. “Here.” He sets them before Moran, along with a knife and fork.

     Moran darts his gaze up briefly to meet Moriarty’s. “Thank you, sir.” He drops his gaze back to the food and begins to cut up the beef.

     Moriarty pulls over a second chair, bringing it much closer towards Moran than would be considered proper were they in the dining room. He sits upon it, so close to his companion that his knee brushes against the colonel’s.

     “You haven’t asked me how it went,” Moran remarks after chewing and swallowing a piece of beef. He glances up into Moriarty’s face.

     “I presumed that you would tell me in your own time, once your need for sustenance had been sated.”

     Moran grins as he forks a cold potato into his mouth. “Most of it went like clockwork, sir,” he says after eating it. “The most risky part of it, you might say – I did exactly as you’d told me and it worked a treat.”

    “As I predicted, and as I knew it had the instant I knew you were back.

    “I might have failed,” Moran points out. “You couldn’t know I succeeded right in that instant.”

    “Of course I could.”

    “Oh?”

      Moriarty leans forward slightly. “Really, chick, do you think I do not know you at all? I could claim that it is because of the look in your eye or the quirk of your lips that I _knew_ you were triumphant but primarily it is because you did not come home cursing volubly.” It is though, the professor supposes, plausible that Moran would come home still appearing reasonably calm had he failed on one of his assignments. Early in their association, on the rare occasions where the colonel had failed, then he would slink home and be unable to look the professor in the eye, fully expecting to be brutalised for having let his master down. It had taken a long time for Moriarty to convince him that he while he could never forgive disloyalty, he would never violently punish Moran for a genuine mistake or things that were entirely beyond his control. But even so Moran hates to let Moriarty down; his agitation had he failed this time would still have manifested in some way.

     “All right.” Moran grins. “Like I said, most of it went like a dream. It were just getting in and out that was a bit more difficult than we figured.”

     “I had assumed that also.”

     Moran takes a sip of water before speaking again. “They’d got a new dog. I reckon that old one I saw before must have kicked the bucket and they got this one instead - size of a bloody pony. I had to wait up a bloody tree for hours while it was prowling, until it got distracted by a rabbit. Still it tried to take a bite out of my arse as I climbed over the wall. Didn’t succeed though.”

     Moriarty smiles faintly. “Is this your way of informing me you expect a greater cut of the proceeds? Some additional danger money?”

      Moran laughs. “No sir. No dog, no matter how big or how vicious, is a patch on a tiger. This was nothing compared to some of my past hunts.”

     “Ah, then you will expect a reduced share of the proceeds, since it was so easy?” Moriarty is still smiling as he slips his hand over beneath the table and rests it upon Moran’s thigh.

     Moran stares at him, briefly thrown by the initiation of such physical intimacy. He composes himself quickly though, chuckling as he picks up another piece of bread. “No sir, I did my job fair and square and you shall pay me what you promised.”

     “Of course.” Moriarty watches him intently still, even eagerly, anticipating what is to come imminently. “The switch went perfectly?”

     “All fine and dandy, Professor. They shouldn’t notice anything’s amiss until Mrs T. goes to put on her sparklers for her next fancy ball and notices that necklace ain’t quite so glittery as normal, and even then I’m not sure some of ‘em could tell the difference. Some of these aristocratic types can’t even find their arses with both hands. It made for some good times when I was in school, I can tell you.”

     Moriarty smiles thinly at these remarks. “You’re certain there were no witnesses?”

     “Only the dog, and he ain’t gonna be talking.” As Moran chews on his next mouthful he slips his hand inside his jacket, withdrawing something from the inner pocket. He sets this item softly down on the table in front of Moriarty without a word and calmly continues eating.

     The professor’s gaze drops from Moran’s to rest upon the object as Moran relinquishes his hold on it. It is something fairly small, contained within a black velvet pouch. He draws the bag carefully towards him and unties the cord that holds it closed. As he tips the contents of the pouch out into his palm his eyes seem to sparkle, and perhaps not purely from the lamplight, refracted by the item in his hand, shining into them.

     “Magnificent,” he says, and Moran drops his gaze, smirking to himself as he eats another piece of potato. “Quite magnificent.” Moriarty pushes back his chair, standing up and moving over towards the lamp to get a better look at the object.

    “Didn’t think you’d be the sort to be so taken in by such baubles,” Moran remarks, still grinning.

     Moriarty doesn’t respond for a moment however, as he very carefully allows the exquisite diamond pendant to drop down an inch or two upon its beautifully wrought white-gold chain, so that the carefully faceted stone better catches the light. The resulting light flickers across his features as he stares into the heart of the diamond. “I am not, as you put it, ‘taken in’ by such trinkets,” he says at last, drawing his gaze off the dazzling stone and back towards Moran. “I do not covet such objects for myself, but I may still appreciate such a fine thing – the quality of the stone itself; how well it has been cut; how finely made the setting and chain are.” He strolls slowly back towards the table, re-taking his place beside Moran. “I may also appreciate the dark history of this _bauble_. How much blood do you think has been spilt in pursuit of this stone? And in trying to protect it? Seven times, Sebastian, at the very least, this particular jewel has been stolen. People have quite literally died in the pursuit and the protection of what is in essence merely a lump of glorified rock. As a symbol of the folly of mankind it is most fascinating.”

     “If you say so.” Moran eats a piece of cheese without looking up either at the professor or at the glittering thing dangling from the professor’s hand. “I mean it’s pretty enough and I s’pose it’d impress Kitty if I was to put that thing around her neck but then I could spend a fraction of what that’s worth on a necklace for her and she’d be just as impressed. What’s the use of it really? You can’t wear it in public, you can’t sell it, you can’t pawn it and some other mad bastard is only going to come along and filch it again sooner or later.” 

     “Our client has no intention of parading it publicly, or selling or pawning it,” Moriarty points out. “He is a queer sort of magpie, one who covets highly unique, extremely expensive things solely so that he may feel smug and superior to everyone else because he possesses something that they do not. As for it being stolen again, well, once this _gewgaw_ is out of our hands and in his that becomes entirely _his_ concern, not ours.” He carefully slips the pendant back into its pouch and reties the cord. “You did very well, my dove.” His right hand remains clasped around the necklace in its pouch but he lifts his left hand and reaches up to Moran’s face, brushing the colonel’s blood-stained cheek lightly with his fingers.

     Moran, chewing a mouthful of beef now, meets his gaze again and smiles.

     Only after several seconds have elapsed does Moriarty withdraw his hand. “I’ll fetch some iodine to clean your wounds.”

     “I’ll look forward to it,” Moran says wryly. He notices that Moriarty takes the pendant with him upon leaving the room.

  

    When the professor returns he carries the bottle of iodine and some clean rags but there is no sign of the necklace in its pouch. Presumably that has been secreted away in the safe for the remainder of the night, a place even Moran cannot access. However since he has never needed or wanted access to it the question of whether Moriarty would ever entrust the combination to the safe to him remains rather irrelevant.

     Moran has polished off the beef and potatoes in the professor’s absence and is now consuming the last of the bread and cheese when Moriarty comes back to sit beside him. He holds out his right hand obligingly as the professor tips iodine onto a piece of rag.

     “What happened to the dog?” Moriarty asks, his gaze focused on cleaning Moran’s scratched hand.

     “Nothing happened to the- _Christ_.” Moran sucks in a breath through his teeth at the sting of the iodine. “Nothing happened to the dog; it went on its merry doggy way probably to find another hapless little bunny to maul after failing to rip a chunk out of my arse.” He pops the last of the bread into his mouth. “Be too obvious if I’d put a bullet through its brain, wouldn’t it?” he says after swallowing this final bit of his meal.

     “Of course.” Moriarty dabs carefully at Moran’s cheek, wiping away the trickle of dried blood.

     Moran winces again but this time does not curse or flinch. His gaze meets Moriarty’s again. “Didn’t seem fair anyway to kill it,” he confesses at last, dropping his gaze. “Ain’t the dog’s fault his owners decided to try to foil our cunning plans by bringing in a bloody great hound.”

     “I suppose not.” A faint smile crosses Moriarty’s features at his companion’s peculiar sentimentality and strange sense of morality. “You will have to ensure these trousers are thoroughly disposed of,” he remarks, glancing down at the tears in them. He cannot see any indication that any piece of fabric has actually been torn from them and it is a relief that apparently the dog did not manage to rip them either but if that blasted Holmes ever gets on the case then the merest thread caught on a bramble might provide him with a valuable clue.

      “I know, sir; I’ll burn ‘em; the boots too.”

      “Very good.” Moriarty continues to dab at Moran’s cheek. “At least it seems the weather was in our favour; the predicted rain did not materialise.” A blessing indeed, since the still bone-dry ground would not hold footprints. Still, despite this (and despite them having three respectable men who are prepared if necessary to swear on oath that Colonel Moran spent the whole day and a good portion of the night drinking with them) one can never be too careful; there remains the possibility that a vague footprint may have been left in some other way, say perhaps in dust, and boots, unlike trusted right-hand men, are disposable.

     “Bloody good job; last thing I wanted to do was sit up in a tree for hours in the rain,” Moran adds, a consideration which had not occurred to Moriarty, but then the professor was of course not the one actually carrying out the burglary. “You done playing nursemaid?” He grins up at the professor.

     “All done.” Moriarty puts the stopper back in the iodine bottle.

     Moran drinks the rest of his glass of water as he stands up. He gathers up the crockery and cutlery and carries it through to the scullery.

     “There’s no need for that, Sebastian; the servants can wash them in the morning,” Moriarty calls to him, hearing water splashing in the sink.

    “I won’t be long. You go back to bed though sir, if you want.”

     Moriarty rolls his eyes at his lover’s fastidiousness. He remains in the kitchen though, waiting until Moran has washed the items and set them to dry. “Come here,” he says as Moran re-emerges from the scullery, holding out his arms to the colonel.

     Moran goes to him, letting himself be drawn into the professor’s embrace. Moriarty kisses him gently on mouth first; upon the forehead second, before Moran rests his head against Moriarty’s shoulder. “Come to bed now, pet,” Moriarty says softly. “Then I may give you your reward.”

     “My reward?” Moran glances up, a flicker of interest crossing his face, but looking into his eyes again now Moriarty realises how weary Moran is.

     “Yes my boy, your reward.” Moriarty kisses him on the mouth again, a bit rougher now; a little more passionately, and Moran kisses him back keenly, but then when Moriarty drops his hand down to skate it over the front of Moran’s trousers the colonel catches hold of it, drawing it away from his body, interlinking his fingers with Moriarty’s.

     “Professor,” he says, dropping his gaze, sounding rather hesitant. “If you don’t mind…”

     “What?” Moriarty is curious rather than vexed by Moran’s behaviour.

     “You know I’m usually up for that when it’s offered.” Moriarty laughs slightly as he lifts his gaze to meet Moriarty’s again. “But what I’d really like right now is…”

    “What, Sebastian?” Moriarty presses gently when Moran still hesitates.

    “To get out these clothes and go to sleep.”

      Moriarty smiles, appearing almost puzzled by this. “That’s all?” He is used to Moran gently requesting sex; Moran playfully flirting with him; Moran teasing him with sexual innuendo – always being mindful of the professor’s differing feelings; never forcing the issue or demanding sexual congress, but making it apparent that he enjoys sex very much and would like to have as much of it as possible.

     Moran smiles too almost sheepishly as he leans forward to give the professor a peck on the lips. “That’s all, at least for tonight.”

     “Whatever you want, pet.” Moriarty caresses Moran’s uninjured cheek before slowly pulling away from him. He balls up the used rags and tosses them into the fireplace to be disposed of once the fire is lit. Then he takes up a match and relights his candle. “Turn out that light and come upstairs then. Oh, and bring that bottle of iodine with you.”

     Moran puts out the lamp but remains standing there a moment, leaning back against the table and regarding Moriarty in the sudden near-darkness.

    “Sebastian,” Moriarty calls from the doorway. The candlelight illuminates his face with a warm golden glow, though it makes his pale eyes seem suddenly dark. Despite this the look on his face is welcoming, not menacing. “Come along.”

     “Yes sir.” Moran smiles before straightening up, amused perhaps by his willingness to obey this man - Moriarty the mathematics tutor, perpetually seeming to have chalk dust in his hair and smudged on his clothing; Moriarty the ageing kindly professor with his head seemingly up in the stars and his study full of obscure tomes and strange astronomical instruments. Hardly the sort of figure one might expect to be able to order a man like Moran around, yet the colonel has pledged himself to the professor in mind, body and soul. None other – not his former regiment; not the army; certainly not his family – had ever had such loyalty from Moran and never before has he been prepared to risk so much for one single man.

     He snags the iodine bottle off the table and strolls out of the room, pulling the kitchen door shut behind him, before quietly following the professor up the stairs to bed.


End file.
